The Noblest Art
by E.N.HA
Summary: It's a rare man who remembers to be grateful. P.T. Barnum is a rare man. Title taken from P.T. Barnum's quote: "The noblest art is that of making others happy."


It's been a long time, Phineas knows. Grey has crept unobtrusively into his hair, unremarked by most, but _he_ sees it, the evidence of almost five decades of struggling and surviving. She was a young woman at the time, but youth passes quickly on the streets, hurrying along on its way to an early grave. Life in the gutter is multifariously cruel. He still carries the scars that prove it, hidden beneath his fine gentleman's attire.

He ascends the steps, double-checking the scrap of paper in his hand. It took him almost a year to narrow it down to this, and that with the whole circus helping him, though Charity was the only one who knew why he wanted it. Phillip in particular was a blessing, aiding him without question even as he shot him puzzled looks from under his expressive brows. The younger man's resourcefulness – he always seems to _know someone_ – is one of the things P.T. Barnum prizes most about him. He doesn't know exactly what the upper class does with its time, but whatever it is, clearly Phillip's family did a lot of it.

"Good afternoon, ma'am." He sweeps off his hat with his best charming smile. "P.T. Barnum. I was told you might be able to help me find someone."

The woman in the scullery doorway looks suspicious of everyone and everything. He'd look that way too if he lived in this part of town. "Why?" she barks, her voice as rough as her chapped hands and the frayed edges of her apron. "I ain't a clerk."

Always treat people like they want to help; they might find themselves tricked into doing it. "I don't know her name." He fishes out a sketch, his own handiwork, drawn from memory late one night long after Charity had ceased her vigil. He would doubt its accuracy after nearly forty years except that every one of those years hinges on it. "This is what she looked like once. I'm afraid there's nothing more recent."

But that doesn't seem to be a problem. "Oh, _that_ ," the woman sniffs. "Out back with the trash."

She slams the door.

He takes this as permission granted. He descends the steps and circles around the building, well aware of the hungry looks he's drawing. The alley is narrow enough that his broad shoulders brush the walls. He steps carefully, wary of striking discarded human refuse in the shadows.

He emerges out the back, and there, as promised, is the trash against a wall. He treads lightly, just loudly enough that she will hear him without being startled, and takes a knee before her.

"Ma'am." He presses his hat to his breast. His smile is tremulous, but his voice is admirably steady. "My name is Phineas Taylor Barnum. You might not remember me, but we met once, a very long time ago."

The words draw her out of whatever daze has captured her waking hours. She lifts her face, and _Lord_ it's the same, the strangely misaligned features and the kindness that is its own eloquent language. He has to swallow the lump in his throat as his success hits him in all its vast improbability. He extends his calloused hand, very gently requesting the honour of hers.

She cautiously lays it in his, and although it has grown gnarled and spotted it is familiar. He grips it tenderly, respectful of the arthritis he sees has laid claim to it. "May I ask your name?" he asks softly.

She gazes into his eyes, and there's a soft intelligence in her muted irises, but she says nothing. He wonders if she's able to speak. He bites his tongue on the verge of asking her to spell her name in the dirt. It will be a small miracle if she knows how to write, and he would rather die than humiliate her.

She whispers something. He leans in, placing his ear next to her thin lips, and her breath wafts over his skin. He hears her words, but he stays where he is, thinking there must be a qualifier, some explanation to make sense of what he's just heard. But that's it, that's all she has to say, and judging by the rasp in her voice it is the most she's said for a very long time.

He pulls back, willing away the sudden blinding pressure behind his eyes. "Milly. Do you like Milly?" he asks, and he's not even really sure what he's saying, but no one can live over sixty years and have no name. "Milly's pretty. Can I call you that? Can I call you Milly?"

He gives her the brightest look he can muster and is rewarded in kind. He kisses the back of her hand, willing away the nameless years, and suddenly her voice sounds, as clear as a bell. "The little apple boy," she says. "Yes. The little apple boy – I remember you were hungry."

He glances up. Her eyes have lit up like two stars, distant but bright, and he knows there are children who would do anything to have their mothers look at them the way she is looking at him right now.

"Yes," he whispers. "That's me."

There will be no shows for her. There will be a soft chair by the fire, and Charity's cooking in her belly, and two little girls chattering away at her feet as she slowly learns to talk and laugh and sing like happy women do. And when the time comes, when after everything is done she decides she is ready to leave this ignorant world, she will do so in her own warm bed with a hand in hers and her name in her ears.

He knows what her future will be. For her, he will make it happen.

"Come on, Milly." He tugs gently on her hand, and hope flutters in her eyes. "There are some people I'd like you to meet."


End file.
